the best is yet to be
There’s such a delicate, unavoidable pain associated with growing up. If you poke at it too much, it will burst, and you’ll find yourself engulfed in a stunning combination of nostalgia, self-awareness, and fear of the unknown.
I inflicted this upon myself on Christmas — this was the first year as an adult that I’ve woken up in my own space —I didn’t spend the night somewhere else. It dawned on me that it’s up to me to create my own traditions now, but I still wanted to hold onto whatever sweetness I had left from holidays of my youth. I didn’t want my 24-year-old brother to spend Christmas morning by himself, so I invited him over, and made sure he had a stocking filled with candy. Despite my best efforts at fighting my own mother’s insistence — she is right, I am a maternal person — not that there is anything wrong with that, but it’s an aspect of my personality I’ve strayed from clinging to due to my own stubbornness, my belief that a woman can be much more than a caretaker, and doesn’t have to spend her youth in anticipation of becoming one. But alas, I’m now the woman I grew up observing each year on Christmas morning — making sure the Pillsbury Grands! cinnamon rolls go into the oven at the right time, my carefully curated holiday playlist with songs from She & Him, Elvis Presley, and The Beach Boys plays not too soon and not too late, and the coffee and hot chocolate is ready to sip while we tear wrapping paper. My boyfriend and brother stared at me expectantly as I involuntarily stood with my hands on my hips and said “Well, I guess we can do stockings now.”
I have been, and always will be a planner — a fact that has become increasingly evident as I entered my 26th year last month. It’s something I can laugh about now — one person’s control freak is another’s Sally Albright. When my mom texted me a couple of months ago that she was watching When Harry Met Sally and that I remind her of Meg Ryan’s character, I knew exactly what she was referring to, down to the scene: “I like things the way I like them.” My list-making, self-imposed schedules, itineraries for trips, and custom digital invitations made on Canva for movie nights and small dinners at my house have resulted in a collection of moments that I never would have thought of wishing for whilst blowing out a candle on a slice of cake.
Graduating college three months before a years-long global pandemic more or less placed me in arrested development and didn’t allow me to dream — jumping from job to job with no real goal other than to make enough money to pay my bills, spending large amounts of time alone and nitpicking, feeling confined to the roles I had in the lives of others.
2022 has been an exceptionally good year for getting out of that head space, and I’ve found myself in places both new and familiar — eating breakfast in Washington Square Park, driving through the Smoky Mountains with my boyfriend, being in a job that I’m good at, debating whether or not I can/should go to grad school, contemplating the future of blogging and online writing outlets, etc.
I went to my first out-of-state writing conference this year, where I spent a week at a college in Massachusetts with writers from all over the country. At the welcome dinner, I picked from a deck and the face of the card was the table I’d be sitting at for the evening. I belong here, I thought, and my heart dropped during workshop and group dinners and readings throughout the week. In the middle of the week, workshop was held earlier in the day so we could have a free afternoon to do whatever we wanted — I meticulously studied the conference schedule leading up to this, and traveled to the next college town over, which happened to be Northampton, the home of Smith College. I spent an hour going through Sylvia Plath’s manuscripts and poem drafts, and was so starstruck that I cried when I left the library. Getting back to the dorm I was staying in from Northampton was more of a challenge, and I decided to walk to the edge of town where the highway started. Humbled, with my phone battery on 10%, I waited for a Lyft outside of a cannabis dispensary. The last night of the conference, after closing festivities, a group of us trekked into town and took over the patio of a dive bar and stayed for hours as more people joined us, despite having flights to catch the next morning. I walked back to my dorm well after midnight, laughing as my friend took off her shoes.
The time that has elapsed from last November to now has been spent growing into myself, and pushing away pandemic-induced loneliness. It’s true that the tables we find ourselves sitting at as we get older get smaller, but what matters is that we have a place there to begin with, and we have more control over who is sitting across from or next to us. As I navigate the last half of my twenties, I have to remind myself that it’s never too late to seek or create spaces we feel welcome in, or be excited about who we’re becoming.
I’m thankful to have had such a good year, and yet I can’t help but feel that being thankful isn’t enough. Is there a feeling bigger than gratitude? Maybe I’ll find it in 2023. Here’s hoping you do, too.